fill the blanks
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Days like this, when the air itself is gold, it seems like will never rain again. (Tyra and Tim, 1x21, friends again. Mentions of attempted rape, trauma.)


Days like this, when the air itself is gold, it seems like will never rain again.

Tyra sits on the stoop and soaks it in, tells herself that past is past, she's fine, she's free, she is nothing. A tiny speck of dust on an endless map. It's over, it's over. Her bruises hurt, but they'll heal. She'll hate that asshole forever, but she never has to think of him again.

If only it were that easy.

She hears the rumble of Tim's truck coming up the road, and she decides she's going to be pissed at him, but there's a faint whisper of relief in the shimmering sunlight.

.

He leaves the door of the cab open. She lectures him; he jams his hands in his pocket and says he's sorry in the thousandth kind of way, for the thousandth time.

She doesn't exactly forgive him.

.

"Can I come in?"

It's on the tip of her tongue to deflect a little more, ask him a few pointed questions about him and his hot-mom neighbor, but she doesn't actually have any questions about that. Tim Riggins is every woman's favorite poison, and as for why Tim would go for a woman twice his age—Tyra knows full well Tim never considers the wisdom of his choices.

"Yeah, you can come in," she says. "I need to change, if I'm going to this damn roast thing."

He sits on their couch, legs too long and sprawling. She remembers the handful of times he'd been at her place, Mom and Mindy teasing him and fawning over him while Tyra and he stared each other down as though it were some kind of competition.

Tyra vanishes into her bedroom, shuts the door behind her. _Just friends_ , so he doesn't even try to follow her.

She puts on a black dress. Doesn't look at the hamper where the wet clothes are still balled up in the corner. She should throw them out. She may yet.

She cried in front of Landry, and she cried in front of Mrs. T., and she all but stormed out of the police station. All of which is to say that she feels hollow inside now, empty, just wishing that some of that golden air would rush into her lungs and make her whole again.

.

She comes out and Tim asks if he's allowed to say she looks good. She rolls her eyes at that and doesn't answer, but she lets her shoulders relax a little when he follows her outside. She knows how to do this. He's not drunk and though he looks a bit tired, this is Tim at his best. There's a reason she let herself—well, she doesn't want to think about love or sex or anything right now. It's like a part of her soul has been scratched raw and she can't think about certain things without spoiling them forever, letting that blackness bleed onto them, stain them.

She needs to never think of it again.

"Nice day out," Tim says.

"I guess." Tyra squints.

"Nice sunset, probably. You like sunsets."

"Everyone likes sunsets, Tim." But she keeps the edge out of her voice. For once, he doesn't really deserve it. Tim's truck is achingly familiar. She knows those worn leather seats better than anyone.

"You seems a little…" Tim stops mid-sentence, leans back. One hand on the wheel. He has scars on his hands, callouses on every finger. He thinks for a long second, sucking his teeth, and then he says, "You OK?"

She could tell Tim. She could. _He_ wouldn't blame her, like the cops did—he's got this fundamental honor code about that kind of thing, deep under all the football and beer and rally girl crap. If she tells Tim, Tim will hunt down that sonuvabitch and kill him. Of that she has no doubt.

The very knowledge of it loosens the knot in Tyra's chest, but she lets the moment pass. "I'm fine. It's been a long year."

Tim just nods.

She breathes again. "You got any good jokes for tonight?"

"A few," Tim says, with a secretive smile that tells Tyra that he's going to absolutely bomb it. She wants to reach up and push his hair out of his eyes, but they said _just friends_ and she meant it, so she curls her fingers against her skirt instead.

He turns on the radio and she lets herself go, lets herself show herself that she's going to be alright. She sings along and makes him laugh, and they slip back into old patterns. Farther apart, not even hands touching hands, but she'll take it.

It's one more step towards moment.

She lets the moment pass.


End file.
